Downtime
by missdarkandtwisty
Summary: First ever fanfiction really, about everyone's favourite assassins and when their director can tell they need time to unwind. Kind of angsty? hurt/comfort? a little bit fluffy? Might be added to later and I suck at summaries.
1. Chapter 1

Downtime is something that returns their sense of normality; a ridiculous, bizarre mundane routine seems to deliver the members of Strike Team Delta from the brink of insanity.

It occurs either when the Director catches sight of Agent Barton, solo or accompanied by the red-headed ex-Russian, staggering down the hallways of the Hell Carrier, either half dead from exhaustion or just plain half dead, although, it is also authorized if he spies Agent Romanoff with that particularly disturbing expression on her face which makes him think that any member of the population of the SHIELD base could wake up sometime during the night with a rather angry assassin with a garrotte around their neck if they pissed her off enough. In fact, screw that, if Romanoff wanted to off someone in their sleep the next time said person wakes up would either be at the pearly gates or the fiery pits of hell itself.

Thus, downtime is ordered. Mandatory leave from all SHIELD premises. When he tells them he can see the aching relief in their eyes, even if they are all business with curt nods and polite tones. Romanoff hauls Barton from the chair and lets him balance a third of his body weight on her deceptively small frame as he stumbles after her. He doesn't miss the way her green eyes soften slightly as she glimpses not-so-discreetly at the archer and his possible worrying amount of injuries because the all-American sniper is as tough as they come and if he is limping then something is wrong. He also dismisses the thought that she would do that for anyone else, allow anyone close enough to slip their arm around her shoulders and tiredly lean their weary head on the crook of her neck but he lets Clint Barton do that. They slip quietly from his office and he can see them in the corridor outside speaking in hushed tones or maybe they're just reading one another's body language but it's far too _intimate, _even for partners, and if Fury was anyone other than a super-spy in charge of an organisation of super-spies-that-don't-quite-beat-him-yet he would have looked away because there is nothing professional or platonic about the searing gaze the sniper is unleashing on the ex-Russian or the way they pause round the corner when they think that they're out of sight and he brushes the matted red hair out of her eyes and cups her face tenderly with so much emotion in his eyes it looks like it hurts. Technically, he should be hauling their asses back in right now to demand an explanation for the way Barton murmurs against her pale neck and her lips quirk upward into what he imagines what must be her version of a smile, he should give them a forty minute rant about frat regulations and why they are there, he should stick their asses on probation and send them to the council or other sides of the globe on solo missions but damn it, this is Barton and Romanoff and they have the highest success rate than the rest of SHIELD put together and let no one say that the Director doesn't care for his agents and besides, he has a soft spot for the hard Russian and easy-going American so he lets it be with a shake of his head and the thought that they better not get themselves killed or worse, compromised and if they ever did, damn he would miss those pains in his ass.


	2. Chapter 2

They drag themselves home. It's not really home of course, home is where each other is, but it is somewhere other than the endless SHIELD bases or crappy motel rooms so she guesses it could be considered a home. She drives, Clint fiddling with the radio and singing along in a raspy country accent that she laughs at and loves just the same.

Their apartment is small and on the wrong-side-run-down area of town. It's on the top floor 'cause Clint likes the height and hates the feeling of being contained and it's private and desolate which she likes because being isolated isn't so bad if he's there to be isolated with.

They have a fight over the shower. He demands that she goes first but she just shoves him in and tells him to hurry up and that he better not waste all of the hot water otherwise he would be boiling a kettle twenty-three times so she could wash in heat. This happens every single time. He sings cheerily in that country voice of his butt naked in the shower that doesn't have a curtain cause 'what's the point Tasha? This way you can see my perfect ass' and she sits on the counter, methodically cleaning her knives and the barrels of her guns. Soon enough she's under the burning spray with dirt and debris and blood all flowing off of her body and down the drain in a bloody-black swirl and the fruity shampoo smells so good as she massages her tender and slightly burnt scalp. Clint sits on the toilet lid, 'you're just too fat to fit on the counter Barton', and is humming while shaving off the days' worth of stubble from his throat and cutting his nails with one of her newly-cleaned knives.

Then, they stitch each other up. Amateur sutures, superglue and brandy serving as a substitute for proper medical equipment but both have a fierce vendetta against hospitals so unless they have their guts hanging out, they'll deal with it themselves.

After, they crawl into the double bed that takes up the whole of their bedroom. It smells clean and the sheets are cool, they only stay there for a couple of days every month. Natasha makes sure her favourite tourney knife is under her pillow and Clint takes out his hearing aids, checks their alarm clock and pagers, even on their off days the can get called in at any moment.

They don't snuggle in bed, it wouldn't be wise, if one of them was to have a nightmare they were trained to kill first and ask questions later so they sleep side by side, shoulders, hips and legs all perfectly aligned and hands delicately clasped. Clint kisses her forehead and she kisses his stubbly cheek, 'you know you love it really Nat', and they fall asleep like that. Touching and entwined and safe.

In the morning, he makes her breakfast because she's just as lethal in the kitchen as she is with a paperclip, which is pretty deadly (she may be his partner-more-than-just-partners but she was still the Black Widow with an infamous reputation), she had tried to make pancakes but they had ended up burnt black to a crisp and oozing green gunge. They wake at different times depending which time zone they spent the last week in but their bodies are so used to it by now and so wrecked and longing for sleep that they pass out for a damn long time. It could be four o'clock in the morning he wakes up or nine at night but he always makes pancakes and she always wakes up right after.


	3. Chapter 3

They do normal, muggle things during the day, or what they imagine to be normal, since neither of them had a particularly idealistic childhood they don't know but it's nice so they like it.

Sometimes they'll catch up on paperwork and that would seem perfectly typical to any outsider except for the fact that their paperwork entails mission details and carefully guarded secrets instead of last month's stock figures. They watch old movies while they splay themselves out on the sofa and Clint always, always, ends up with his head on Natasha's lap while she absentmindedly strokes his spiky blonde hair affectionately and gently smoothing out the creases and lines on his sun-stained face until he's practically purring under her touch like a smugly satisfied cat with a blissed out expression on his face and that smile she finds cute, for the lack of a better word, but she'd never tell him that. Of course this situation seems run-of-the-mill and it would be, except for the faults Natasha points out in the latest spy blockbuster and she can say just what should have happened because she's _lived_ it and then there's the bowl of sweet n' salted popcorn on the table that's nestled between her pale feet and a vast array of knives, guns and arrows. It's a habit that is distinctly _theirs_ though so they like it.

Of course, being master-assassins and experts in espionage means that their bodies are hard-wired to be awake and alert 24/7, making downtime exceedingly difficult after the initial fall and routine. A mere eighteen hours later and the pair of them are buzzing with adrenaline in the confines of the tiny apartment. It is downtime though, and they know not to waste it because very soon they'll be back at base and into the routine of sparring daily and shooting and intimidating the other agents before they're shipped overseas to deal with some weird-ass situation that's got out of hand and only Strike Team Delta have the experience and skill required for such a task.

They walk a lot, go to touristy places because let's face it, when you're sent in to take out an armed mafia, seven of which were thrown out of the military for varying misdemeanours, you don't have much time to take in the scenery or go to museums or do whatever the hell it is tourists do.

They've been transferred only recently to the New York base, along with Fury, Hill and Coulson, so they haven't had much time to scope out the city. After paperwork is dealt with and sent to their ever-strict handler with a note begging to cover for them, they go in the search of all the public attractions the Big Apple has to offer.

You might catch rare glimpses of them, might even brush up next to them in a crowd and you would never notice but they notice _everything. _It's training that has become a habit that has become part of them. A person on the street in the midst of one of the busiest cities in the world wouldn't think to look twice at the tanned muscled guy walking hand in hand with a pale-skinned beauty. A people-watcher, you do get the rare city dweller who enjoys replacing bird watching with humans, might suss out the way the man clasps his partner's hand tightly before intertwining their fingers and smiling down at the woman like she was his whole world and then, as they move through the teaming, bustling group of people, the way he presses his palm protectively to the slope of her spine at the small of her back and guides her safely while glaring at the sight-seers who bustle them and just tugs her closer to him while she rolls her eyes but smiles in an this-is-ridiculous-but-I-like-it-and-you-will-neve r-know-you-smug-asshole kind of way.

Natasha is surprisingly girly off missions. On base, she rarely changes from practice clothes or her SHIELD issue cat suit even to sleep, usually choosing underwear and one of Clint's shirts she had acquired on their last mission in some sweltering, hot, remote Middle Eastern country that hadn't ever heard of air conditioning. But downtime is her time, her own time to do what she wants so she figures she can wear what she wants. She had only once encountered one of the agents in SHIELD's employ, other than Clint, while wearing a light skirt and blouse and wedges while waiting for her elusive partner and the unsuspecting rookie had tried to hit on and insult Natasha simultaneously, resulting in his face being squashed against the smooth bar with his arms pulled sharply behind him and pinned menacingly and at the mercy of the Russian who had subtly positioned her knife against a _tender_ area, unseen to the onlookers. He was only released when the sharp-shooter showed up and casually told Natasha to not play with her food. She pouted, _pouted_ for god's sake, but released the bastard as he staggered away but not before she whispered a threatening promise and blood if he ever tried something like that again. He never did and was scarred for life after that incident.

Clint relishes these days, keeps them stored in his mind for those other days when he's feeling low or something has gone horribly south, this is what he remembers and loves the most. He loves watching Natasha take in new places, although she doesn't say it allowed in words he knows she loves discovering new cities and facts and exploring every nook and cranny available. It feels good because he's the only one who properly gets to see her like this, green eyes shining in wonder and totally hooked on what the tour guide is spewing out over his loudspeaker. She only lets herself relax when she knows he's in her presence, that if anything happens he will be her early warning system to alert and protect her. It's how they work.

In the evening they go to the cinema, because although Natasha wants to drag Clint around some more sights he can barely walk so they agree to get hot dogs and go and watch the latest mindless movie that's just appeared on the big screens. They don't even have to bother to pick out a movie, just settling for the first one on the list and sneaking into the back of the cinema. Clint watches, completely enthralled, while Natasha sips her soda and surveys the area. It may mean downtime but that doesn't mean they're safe, they have plenty of enemies and she has to protect him now.

When they arrive back home it's late and their roof is leaking in their kitchen making a persistent dripping noise that is maddening in the quiet presence of each other. They fall in to bed, too tired to do anything else than strip themselves of their soaked clothes and ruined shoes before briefly pulling on clean outerwear and crawling under the sheets. The steady drip, drip, drip continues and the rain is so loud and heavy it sounds like the whole roof is going to cave in on their heads at some point in the middle of the night but they just tighten the grip they have on each other's hands and lie side by side and agree to never let SHIELD pick their flat for them ever again.


	4. Chapter 4

**I'd just like to thank everyone who reviewed/followed/favourited. I was really touched and it meant the world to me :D anyway, this is just kind of something that was stuck in my head so I'm thinking about changing Downtime into a series of one-shots of off-mission-time from our favourite assassins? Ideas? **

* * *

Natasha knew exactly where she was when she opened her eyes. Only one place could smell so disturbingly clean and citrus washing powder that she knew of and that place was the SHIELD infirmary.

It also helped she had been fake sleeping for the last few minutes to get her bearings and sort through the last shit storm of a mission her and her partner had been sent on.

Barton.

She sat upright immediately and winced heavily. Ribs definitely not feeling too good along with the rest of her aching limbs and muscles. Fur-lined restraints kept her wrists pinned either side of her and there was a drip going into one arm. Suddenly a wave of memories of being pinned down to a table and being pumped full of drugs sent her into a fit of panic. Doctors leering over her in those eerie half masks and brandishing scalpels in a similar way she wielded her throwing knives.

An alarm whirred above her head along with increasing beeps on her heart monitor but it was all background noise compared to the white noise inside her head. Workers in white gowns barged through her door and she was kicking and screaming and biting and just trying to get _away _and get safe and get to Clint because what if this wasn't SHIELD and he was hurt damn it?

She manages to unbuckle one of the wrist straps with her teeth and the other she _yanks_ and something crunches but she doesn't care because she has to find her archer and he has to be okay before she can even think about the world of pain that she's in.

"You idiots it's in her file about drugs!" a voice shouts in exasperation but she's too far gone to recognise it and is intent on getting free, "Out! Just get out of my sight right now before I make your lives hell with the paperwork I'm gonna drown you in!"

Then it's quite and still and she's on the floor and breathing heavily but she has required a sharp blade and she can take down whoever threatens her now that she's armed and a bit more coherent.

"Romanoff," the voice is soft and male and soothing but not _Clint's_ so she eyes the suited man warily, still crouched and ready to fight, "I know you're not feeling good right now but the drugs will wear off soon. You can come and see Barton, he's in the ICU but the docs think he's out of the woods now."

Everything seems to snap into place with jarring clarity as she knows this man in front of her.

"Clint?" she asks carefully.

"Safe" he confirms and suddenly she can _breathe_.

This is why she trusts Phil, she realizes. Possibly the only person she trusts next to her hawk but still as a great deal of respect for. So many handlers could have easily left one of them behind on that fucked-up-compromised-to-hell mission but not Coulson. He always swore to get both of them home, in one piece or in a damned box if he had to but to always, always get them home.

"Condition?" she rasps and the water he hands her is lukewarm but she doesn't care as it soothes her abused throat and she doesn't think that she has ever drank something so good in her entire life.

"You have a couple of broken ribs, through-and-though shot in your shoulder and thigh and if you hadn't been in such a bloody hurry to get to Barton you probably could have avoided a broken wrist," he pointed out, scowling at her in a way that made her feel like a scolded child and very amused all at once, "Clint's collarbone was pretty badly broken, he had more holes in his torso than a colander but they patched him up okay Natasha."

He doesn't look okay when she finally gets to see him. They insist on her sitting in a wheelchair because _protocol_ and that makes her roll her eyes because since day one their entire partnership was based on giving a big fat middle finger to protocol.

He's almost grey next to the stark whiteness of the hospital room and hooked up to a lot of tubes. He has a tube under his nose and that sends her heart pounding against her broken ribs and the fact she got a hold of his chart to find Coulson had emitted the details of the Iowan-raised assassin's punctured lung, ruptured spleen and the tendon damage in his upper back.

The doctor's had said the anaesthetics should wear off soon but she doesn't really know if she wants them to. He looked like he was going to be in a lot of pain in the near future and that didn't sit well with her. He looked peculiar as well, his normally spiked sandy hair lying dull and flat. She ran her hands through it softly, rubbed out the wrinkles that marred his forehead as he began to slowly come around.

"Hey," she breathed softly, "You're awake."

"Tash," he groaned gripping her hand tightly, taking note of the plastered wrist of her right hand, "We're alive. How the fuck did we pull that off?"

"Coulson."

"Thank god for paranoid handlers."


End file.
